Authenticity

Books, movies, poems, songs and numerous stand-up acts have been based on Joseph Campbell’s remarkable work on The Hero’s Journey. And rightly so. Campbell’s intensive study of the hero lore of many cultures uncovered a similar theme – a monomyth – recurring regardless of time and place.

It’s brilliant.

And it’s also only about dudes.

In the monomyth uncovered by Campbell, women feature exactly twice: The Hero meets a Goddess who inspires him, and then he meets a Temptress who, well, tempts him. The rest of the time, he’s a guy on a quest sometimes accompanied by other guys.

I had taken a stab at examining The Heroine’s Journey in a blog post I wrote back in 2014 – it was mostly about how we have a new female hero showing up in today’s literature and film, embodied by the character of Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games trilogy.

To really dig into the topic on a larger level, though, I had to do some thinking. I took out my journal and started writing to understand the similarities and the differences between a classic man’s experience and the hero’s journey of women I’ve know and read about.

I wondered where Campbell’s ideas intersected with what I’ve observed over my lifetime. The answer?

Not very often.

I had to refill the ink in my pen more than one time to get to the heart of the matter. And here’s what I think about a women’s hero’s journey. It starts like this: A woman is going along her merry way, doing whatever she’s doing. She might be stressed, she might not be. She might be rich, poor, old, young, whatever.

She’s living the life she’s living and then all of a sudden –

A crisis erupts. The floodwaters rise, the cow runs off, the husband runs off, the tornado’s a-coming, the rent needs to be paid, the boss is inappropriate, the nuclear reactor is leaking. Whatever it may look like, something bad happens.

And the first thing she does is try to fix the crisis. She mends and tends. She looks for solutions.

But there comes a time when she’s aware she can’t fix it – there’s no way it can be fixed at all – and has a moment of deep recognition that the only thing she can change is her idea about who she is and what she’s capable of doing.

Her identity shatters. Who she thought she was, and how she thought the world was – it’s all gone.

In the depths of her soul, she finally asks who she wants to be.

She embarks on a period of trial and error to find this new self.

In the course of her quest, she forms a tribe. These are women, men, children, animals who support her as she figures out who she really is.

She has experiences. She’s growing more and more conscious. She learns.

One day she has fresh awareness: She feels like herself. A new self.

A new crisis comes up, and she handles this one very differently. This new crisis allows her to see just how strong she is.

She has created a new life.

And the people in her tribe are safe. She can live happily and contentedly, thoroughly aware of her strength and resilience.

Women – does this in any way resonate? Clarify things for you? Give you hope that there is a path through any difficulty?

Now to the men who are reading these words – why does this matter for you? If you love a woman, or are father to a girl, and you want to be a part of her tribe, recognize that her journey toward a heroic life may be significantly different from the male hero’s journey you’ve been saturated in since birth. This may be why sometimes you don’t understand why the women in your life don’t seem to value what you value, or organize their lives the way you organize yours.

Because a man’s journey – according to Campbell – is an external adventure, full of battles where you can prove yourself.

And a woman’s journey – according to me – is an internal adventure, full of the kinds of moments which allow a woman rise up and know herself deeply.

Neither is right. Neither is wrong.

We prosper as human beings, though, when we respect and support the necessary paths each of us must walk to live our own heroic lives.

To tell you the truth, for the sake of our friendship, I’d rather hear about that action-packed weekend than hear, “Fine.”

I’m less about superficial and more about real these days.

We need to come to terms with the fact that there’s a teeny bit of bullying going on when any of us ask a question that, in essence, tells the person exactly what kind of response we will accept. And we know being bullied feels cruddy – why would we, even subconsciously, do it to others?

Another thing: You also have to be present to ask good questions, which seems to be a problem facing so many of us. Being present means asking the question and waiting for the response, not asking a throwaway question that prompts a throwaway response.

Me (thinking about getting to my desk and getting to work): “Doing good?”

You (thinking about getting me out of your hair): “Yep, doing fine.”

This interchange doesn’t build anything, doesn’t grow anything, doesn’t lead to us understanding one another. It’s boring. Our relationship is not one iota deeper, truer or more real as a result of our interaction. Neither of us is really present to one another in that moment. Why, then, do we persist in doing it?

There’s another way to ask questions so you get good answers, and you can teach yourself how – it’s:

“What was it like?” rather than “Did you have a good time?”

“How is your mother?” rather than “Is your mom OK?”

“Where are you on the Framastan project?” rather than “You got the Framastan project done, didn’t you?”

Let’s look at that last one a little deeper. The question implies that homework is always an iffy proposition and you know the kid won’t do it unless you’re constantly on them about it. You’re basically saying, with that question, “I don’t trust you, you loser.” Night after night after night of that sort of pressure – does it work to get the results you need? That the kid needs? Is it what any of us need?

Always ask an open-ended question that allows the answerer the freedom to answer however they’d like. With their truth.

I wrote this on the ten year anniversary of 9/11, and re-reading again this year, the fifteenth anniversary, seems appropriate to read it again, this year.

I was feeling rather smug that morning.

I stood on the tee box of the seventh hole, under the bluest sky I’d seen in some time, the crisp early fall air like a tonic in my lungs. And I was playing my brains out – 2 strokes over par after the first six holes of a nine hole golf tournament.

I was even nervously allowing myself to think, “I could win this thing!”

I stood on the tee box in the casual pose I’d seen pro golfers strike, arm on hip, hand on the end of the club, leg crossed over. I posed like a woman who was going to win, baby.But then I saw something. Coming over the ridge, a golf cart. I squinted. It was the young golf pro, and she was barreling directly for me. She screeched to a halt and breathlessly said, “Mrs. Woodward, you have to come in. Your husband called.” She must have read something on my face, because she quickly added, “Your kids are fine. Everyone’s fine. It’s just that both World Trade Towers in New York have collapsed, there’s a bomb at the Pentagon, there’s a bomb at the State Department and something up at the Capitol.” Panic started to well up inside me. “Your husband wants you to get the kids and go home.” I nodded, processing it all, and threw my bag on the back of her cart and we sped off. My playing partner stepped out of the porta-potty just in time to hear me say, “I concede. I have to go.”

And I didn’t think about golf again for a very long time.

It took well over an hour to drive the six miles home. I picked up the kids – confused, frightened – on the way. During those gridlocked minutes in the car, I felt like a sitting duck. The local all-news radio station was reporting on fighter planes scrambling, and commercial planes landing. They also reported that there was one more plane, on the way to The White House.

The White House, where I had worked, and where so many friends were working that day.

Crossing the Chain Bridge, I glanced to my left and saw a column of black smoke streaming over the tree tops. The Pentagon burning.

I could smell it.

It was surreal.

Our house is about a quarter of a mile from the Potomac River. Between the house and the river is the busy and noisy George Washington Parkway, which is traveled by 80,000 people every day. Usually, the hum of the cars whizzing past creates a gentle susurrus that can be as comforting as sitting by the ocean. And we also live under the flight path for Reagan National Airport, and the steady rumble of landing and taking off every six minutes is a part of the environment. It’s a noisy place.

But that morning, under the bluest sky, I stood in my front yard and heard… nothing. No traffic. No planes. Nothing. I held my arms out, as if I could embrace the world and share our pain, when I heard the first one. One deep tone. Then another. The National Cathedral had begun tolling its bells. Then the bells from other churches began to ring. Mournful, yes. But hope, too, in each tone. Hope. Hope. Hope.

I stood there, barefoot, broken-hearted, on one of the most beautiful days of the year. Worried. What could possibly come next?

I did an inventory: I had a husband I loved, I had great kids I could parent full-time. I had my family, my friends. We were blessed. We were safe. We were going to be okay.

That’s what it looked like under the bluest sky. But the reality of the next ten years proved to be quite different than I ever could have imagined.If a visitor from the future had told me, that morning out on my front lawn, that in the next ten years:

I would divorce the man whose ring I wore on September 11, 2001, after learning some hard truths.

He would move away, remarry and start a new family.

I would be a single parent.

I would give up being a full-time mom and go back to work.

I would be diagnosed with cancer.

I would struggle financially.

Family and dear friends would die unexpectedly, some painfully.

My children would face challenges which would stop us in our tracks.

If the future visitor told me all that on September 11, 2001, I would have said, “You have to be kidding. It can’t possibly go that way.”

But if that visitor was telling the truth, he’d also have had to tell me the fantastic parts of the coming years:

That I would be known as a writer, with blogs and books.

That I would work with people all over the world – from Asia to Europe, from Canada to Mexico, from Alaska to The Keys – and help them find more fulfilling work, and meaningful lives.

That I’d meet strangers who would grow dear to my heart.

That a certain 8-year old third grader would become a happy, thoughtful, kind, six foot tall college man with a thriving business he created from scratch.

That a little kindergartner would grow into a willowy high school athlete who studies Latin and history, and never forgets a friend.

That I would fund my own retirement account.

That I would own my resilience, know myself and grow comfortable in my own skin.

If the visitor from the future had told me under the bluest sky that I would grow to be more myself – more happy, centered and creative – than I’ve ever been, I would have said, “Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Because I hadn’t a clue on September 11, 2001. I thought I was happy. What could possibly change?

Only everything.

And always for the better, I’ve learned. No matter how it seems in the moment.

Looking forward the next 10 years, to September 11, 2021, what will happen? What change will I meet, and how will I handle it?

I have no idea. None. But I do know this: I am not afraid.

Because even all the pain of the last ten years has been exponentially outweighed by all the love. By all the connections. By all the growth. By all the learning.

On September 11, 2001, three thousand people lost their lives. They had no chance to experience the last ten years of living. But we did. We still do.

Don’t you think we owe it to them to embrace whatever it is that’s coming? And embrace it with love? With kindness? With creativity?

Yes, we do. And I will. I will live with my feet in the grass under skies both blue and gray, and remember the sound of bells tolling, hope, hope, hope.

Philando Castile. Alton Sterling. A therapist trying to help an autistic man.

It seems trivial and superficial for me to write about How To Be Yourself when the US is facing one of the most consequential elections in history. When the UK deals with Brexit. When Turkey has a coup.

I’ve been over here gawping for air like a fish washed up on the shore, people.

Then I remembered my four words for 2016: Real. Presence. Generous. Opportunities.

I’m not being very real or generous by staying silent. I don’t have a presence if I’m not here.

I’m not using the opportunities I have to say the things that might help you (and me) cope through these difficult days.

So, I’m going to try. Let me tell you a story.

About ten years ago – it was a Friday night in January – I was home with my sick son. We heard a loud bang and then smelled the acrid scent of burning electrical wiring. If you’ve ever smelled it, you never forget it.

I ran to every room in the house, trying to figure out what had happened. As I careened down the steps to the basement, I saw thick, white smoke hanging from the ceiling. Not good. Threw open the door to the room where the HVAC system and circuit breaker box is located, and smoke was two feet thick there. I grabbed the phone, dialed 911, took my son by the hand and quickly left the house.

My next-door-neighbor had invited me for wine earlier, which I had declined because my son was sick and I didn’t want him to feel puny and all alone. When I knocked on her door, she was delighted. “You can have wine!” I said, “No. Hear those sirens in the distance? They’re coming to my house.” I explained the situation, she took my son in hand and I went to meet the fire trucks.

Nine of them.

The feeling in the pit of your stomach when firefighters with axes prepare to enter your home is like nothing you can imagine. And seeing the hoses uncoiled, ready to soak your house is both encouraging and terrifying.

The red lights were turning, the fire chief in his white hat was talking with me, and my heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon.

After they had inspected the house, determined that the circuit breaker board had exploded (thankfully, it’s mounted on a cinder block wall or else those hoses and axes might have had to have been used), and turned off all power to the house, the most extraordinary thing happened.

My neighbors started coming.

First, the close in neighbors who I know well, asking if I needed anything. It was January, after all. Did we have a place to stay?

Then, the farther out neighbors. Elderly neighbors. Young neighbors. Could they pitch in? Did I need anything? Did the kids need anything?

Folks walked up the hill, and around the corner. Not looky-loos, but people who wanted to help. Who were ready to help.

It was so kind, and made me feel so connected and cared for. I wasn’t all by myself dealing with a catastrophe – I was part of a community who was looking out for one of its own.

And this is what we need to remember during these trying times.

When we feel like we’re all alone and there’s nothing we can do – there’s always something we can do.

Because when neighbors help neighbors, communities thrive. When communities thrive, nations thrive.

And when your neighborhood extends to those you don’t know, who don’t look like you, whose life experiences are different from yours, who think differently, who are in need…the planet thrives.

So, let’s all be a community, shall we? Let’s be kind to one another and find ways to connect and help.

There’s a lot coming at all of us these days, sugars, and the only way to get past it is to get through it. Together.

In my line of work, I see so many nit-picky things hold people back from making real progress:

“Should I list my advanced degrees on my business card, or not?”

“Is the third word in the fourth line in the second section of my resume supposed to be ‘that’ or ‘which’?”

“I’ve read four books on how to structure the best elevator pitch, and I’m about to start a fifth. Then I can write mine.”

“My website isn’t finished so I can’t do anything now.”

“I don’t get LinkedIn so I’m not on there yet.”

When, really:

It’s better to have your “flawed” business card in a prospect’s hand than have it waiting, in a shopping cart, unprinted.

People get hired because of what they can do. Sometimes, a guy gets hired based on reputation – and a resume isn’t even required.

Conversations are so much more effective than orating a canned pitch you can’t remember anyway.

Folks got customers long before websites were even invented.

LinkedIn profiles are never finished – they are dynamic, ever-changing, always changing. Because you are always evolving.

It seems that the big fear is in putting yourself out there. Am I right? And there are often two twinned ideas woven into that fear:

1) I have do it right so everyone likes me, and 2) everyone is going to judge me.

So, in short, to get what I want I will have to attract a zillion people who are going to laugh at me and tell me I’m wrong.

No wonder we procrastinate.

The thought: “I have do it right so everyone likes me” gets reinforced every time someone tells you that the only way to fulfill your dream is to cast the widest net possible.

OK, there are 7.4 billion people on the globe – your job is to win each and every one of them over? I mean, there are people on this planet who don’t know who Jennifer Lawrence is – you will have to be more likeable than JLaw to achieve what you want to achieve?

That’s even more reason to procrastinate.

What I think you need, rather than 7.4 billion raving fans, is simply enough raving fans to refer you work, hire you, date you…whatever it is you’re looking for.

And the second thought: “Everyone is going to judge me”? Well, that is true.

You are going to be judged.

Human beings judge one another even though we all say we’re not the type who judges. If we’re honest, we know we do it. We may be trying not to do it, and getting better at not doing it, but sometimes judgment slips out.

People are going to look at you trying to do your thing and some are going to say you’re nuts. You’re misguided. You’re making a huge mistake.

And some of these people might just be people you love.

Which is hard.

So, why don’t we do this? Since we know how it works, why don’t we just assume people are going to judge, and – rather than seek to avoid and procrastinate – well, work with it.

As in: Those who judge you and find you lacking are among the 7,399,999,390 people you don’t need to worry about. [A recent study says the average person has about 610 ties in their overall social network – a robust enough group to help you find a job, launch a business, get a date, or find nearly anything you want to buy, if you ask me.]

You can’t win over everyone and you are going to be judged – that’s a fact.

Knowing that fact allows you to forget about whether the third word in the fourth line in the second section of your resume is absolutely perfect. It also allows you to know that the right people are absolutely out there, waiting to hear from you, and to help you make your plan a reality.

All you have to do is get out there and have connect with people. Your people.

I don’t have a problem telling you my age – 56 – because I’m younger than many and older than some.

I think about this a lot – for my grandmothers, fifty-six was a completely different experience.

Because their life expectancy at birth – with no antibiotics, anesthesia or other modern medical advances – was somewhere around forty-five or forty-six. Living beyond that must have seemed like bonus time.

For my grandmother Bea, who died at age 67, turning the age I am now meant that she only had twelve more years of living ahead of her.

Of course, she didn’t know that.

As a young child, all I knew was that Mama Bea looked old, and even pictures of her at fifty-six don’t look the way I look at fifty-six.

My other grandmother, Fern, lived to 101 1/2. Turning fifty-six was well beyond what she had expected, but she had an whole other entire lifetime ahead of her.

Of course, she didn’t know that, either.

I don’t imagine either of them would have been able to fathom my life at fifty-six.

Having a business – well, Bea owned and managed rental properties so she could have understood that pretty clearly – but working out of a home office, coaching men and women in Europe, Asia, Latin America as easy as talking with someone in Tulsa or Topeka? Unfathomable.

Making a very good living at it, too? They’d accuse me of making up tales.

Being at the height of my professional power and connectedness? Now, there they would be utterly dumbfounded.

And maybe just a little bit proud.

Because in their day, it was men who were at the pinnacle of their professional careers – and earning power – at fifty-six.

And now I am, too.

This is a huge shift that has occurred in my lifetime. Once upon a time, a fifty-six year old woman would be considered old, ready for the pasture, useless.

Today, though…

Today, this particular fifty-six year old woman is just getting started.

My work has never been better. My reach is global. My impact is lasting. I am creatively on fire.